Adagio Violent
by AnotherBook
Summary: A series of movements in a slow, minor key, except when the sparks snap alive out of the burning walls. Orchestra conducted by Natasha Romanoff; main themes played by Steve Rogers. Movement Three: A memory in classical, recorded via phonograph. Let the symphony begin! (Posted by Erin.)
1. In Cymbals and Drums

I

They can't help but cling to each other, as the world comes down in flames.

She can't hear him over the sounds of war, but she can read his lips as he asks silently, "How did it come to this?" She doesn't know the answer.

Like a child clinging to a safety blanket, with a need more familiar to the night terrors of the distant memories of old dreams than her adult self, she grips him tighter. It runs deeper than her conscious self, perhaps even deeper than her desire to survive.

She needs someone there.

Through the ringing in her ears, she prays to a God she's forgotten since her short, violent childhood ripped her of any innocence. She's not sure if she believes in Him yet, but the man beside her does, and for now, maybe that will be enough.

Or maybe they'll all burn.


	2. A Reflection of Strings

II

He remembers a night, not so long ago, when the past was too close for comfort.

People expect him to be nostalgic about the world he left behind, but that's not so. It's the people he misses, not the things. (Though sometimes, the taste of corn syrup instead of sugar takes him off guard.) Nothing is quite the same, but it's the people he misses most. His old team.

And then, sometimes, something will bring the past back with perfect, painful clarity. An alleyway or rooftop in a city which brings him back to his worse days when panic attacks would accompany the asthma and he'd not come home with bruises, but shaking from the sheer hysteria that had been enough to scare off the bigger boys. (Psychosis, they called it. Or the product of growing up fatherless. Whatever the cause, it was weakness, and weakness was not tolerated.) His coolness under fire was really marked by a sort of detachment and a feeling of oh-no-I'm-crazy-I'm-about-to-die. The taste of a Mexican-style Coke. Sometimes, even the smell of cigarette smoke is a trigger.

(He's made new bonds. He's stable.)

(The old, broken ones hurt.)

(As if Empress Chance has not dealt him enough harsh blows, she still has to rub his nose in it.)

Gravel crunching underfoot, each pace beating out a slow tattoo to an old drum that doesn't exist any more, except in his memory. And then, through the darkness, they come, stained blue by the low light; a double-time march—a run—of dead men.

And at the back, a small, sickly kid who probably shouldn't even be there. They stare at each other for a moment, like they're complete strangers—soldier and superhero.

Where is the hero in that word?

It's so hard, sometimes, knowing what to do.

He knew the man at the back at the march. Once.

He's not sure if he does any more.


	3. Recorded by Phonograph

**Trigger Warning:** Use of (historically accurate) possibly offensive, certainly racist language. It's about the so-called "superior Aryan race" and uttered by an American, but if this offends you, please don't read this chapter.

* * *

III

There was nearly always one person in the crowds who would look just as uncomfortable as he was, as if he or she did not want to be there. They still cheered, but with a sympathetic sort of gleam in their eyes.

And then there were the ones who saw _him_. Not the costume. Not Senator Brandt's publicity stunt. _Him_, his soul stripped bare, with nothing to hide behind.

Those were the days when he wanted to cower with shame. _What am I doing here?_ he would always ask. On display, like some freak.

He'd always been a freak. But before, he'd just been ignored, or beaten up. Now, people didn't overlook him. (It was sort of difficult, after all.) They _stared_.

And the ones who saw him were worse—they didn't stare. They looked at him with pity, then looked away.

There was a night when he sat on the hotel's back stairs—found his way onto an empty balcony—and a young girl, maybe ten years old, had come and sat with him. He loved the kids most of all—they shouted "Behind you!" and cheered him on, as if it was all real. They didn't think of it as a game. They were still innocent, but to them, it was real. It's a strange dichotomy.

Innocence is the time, he reflects, when people look, and see the symbolism, not the scum just below the surface. There is no unrealism, no false game, to a child. The illusion of glorious war is the domain of the boastful young man, too old to be innocent, too immature to take it seriously.

Immaturity was a luxury that he, as the son of a poor widowed mother, had never been able to afford.

This child—small, with pretty, curly hair and honey-colored eyes—sat next to him, her feet dangling as they watched the stars from the balcony. She kicked her bare feet in the spaces between the railings; he leaned his shoulders against the banister. "Do you fight the Nazi huns?" she asked, her childish voice quiet and sweet.

"No." he answered honestly.

"Why not?"

He took a deep breath. "Someone thought I'd do better here, doing something else." _That's right_, he told himself forcefully. _You couldn't kill a man. You couldn't look anyone in the eyes. You can't hold up your head. You didn't earn the right to do that_. She looked at him, half-smiling.

"They say you do."

"It's all a show," he replied, voice hollow.

"It might not always be."

The next day, she was in the audience. And while it made him want to hide all over again, at the end she caught his eye and smiled.

It gave him the strength he needed to go on, the push to keep on fighting.

(He never did find out her name.)


End file.
